


A Beginning, Reprised

by stapling_pages



Series: Traversing the Portals of Reality [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Riddle Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:50:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1826935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stapling_pages/pseuds/stapling_pages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But three years ago, the boy shows up covered in bandages and quick as can be, he’s part of the family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Beginning, Reprised

**Author's Note:**

> I should probably apologize but I won't.
> 
> On another note, I've changed the exchange rate of Galleons to British Pounds.  
> 1 Knut = .10 BPD  
> 1 Sickle = 2.90  
> 1 Galleon = 49.30
> 
> 10/3/2015: This has been discontinued due to lack of inspiration and personal interest.

The high afternoon sun glared down at the earth, draining the ground dry of vital moisture it couldn’t afford to lose. Withered grass and leaves rustled in the stale breeze. Flowers that in spring had been full of vibrant life now sat hunched in their beds, as though they were attempting to shield as much of themselves from the sun as they could. The usually chatty calls of birds were lethargic and muted. Most of the wildlife was hunkered down in their burrows and dens as they waited for the worst of heat to pass.

The only ones ignoring the summer heat were the residents of the tall castle sitting amidst the wilderness and the small village that dwelled in its shadow. They went about their business with springs in their steps and smiles on their faces. Indeed, for the witches and wizards who lived here, the quiet summer was an unusual treat. For most of the year, the great stone castle called Hogwarts was home to a large number of students eager to learn spells and potions, and other sorts of magic. But for the summer months, short as they were, the castle was home to only a smattering of professors.

One such professor was Albus Dumbledore. The tall, thin man taught Transfiguration – which was the practice of turning one thing into something it very much wasn’t – and was in charge of mentoring the students of House Gryffindor. Professor Dumbledore liked to think he was quite good at both though there were those, as there always is, who would never agree. He was also the Deputy Headmaster, who was responsible for hand delivering the acceptance letters of muggleborn students. They and their parents would have questions, and it was always better to have them answered in person. Professor Dumbledore enjoyed meeting a few of his students before they were sorted because it allowed him to figure out their characters without the camouflage of their house getting in the way; it also enabled him to hedge the bets he placed in the faculty betting pool, though he would never admit to this.

It was for this reason that Professor Dumbledore left the confines of his cool office, and the latest edition of _Trangram Transfiguration_ , that afternoon. He’d chosen a dapper aubergine velvet suit in favor of wizard’s robes and with a final wave goodbye to his fellow teachers, set off across Hogwarts’ lawn to the edge of the wards. As soon as he passed through the gate, Professor Dumbledore spun sharply on his heel and with a soft pop, was gone.

He reappeared on the crest of a hill overlooking a lovely little village beside a sign proclaiming welcome to any visitors. Across the way on the other side of the village, was a tall manor house perched regally atop a much larger hill and surrounded by low fence of brick and cast-iron. In its shadow was a small church surrounded by a graveyard. Professor Dumbledore smiled, checked the letter’s address, and started walking along the path to the village of Little Hangleton.

Professor Dumbledore kept smiling as he entered a quaint little pub called the Hanged Man and headed straight to the long bar running the length of the room. The barkeep and the patron he’d been speaking with stared in surprise at the man before sneaking a glance between them as though to confirm what they were seeing.

“Greetings!” Professor Dumbledore said rather cheerfully.

“Er, hello.”

The muggles shared another look before the barkeep coughed, straightened himself up, and said, “Good afternoon, sir; what’ll it be?” He wiped his hands nervously with a damp washcloth.

“Nothing, I’m afraid. I am on business, you see,” said Professor Dumbledore, “and was wondering if you could direct me to the home of the Riddle family?”

“The Riddles, eh? Dunno what you’d want with them. Better you than me, I suppose.” The barkeep grimaced.

The patron he’d been speaking with, a small woman with large pale eyes, nodded rapidly in enthusiasm. “Rude lot, they are. Or well, they were until the parents hit the bucket and their son decided to galvanize about the country with a good-for-nothing city girl.”

“So they don’t live here anymore?” said Professor Dumbledore.

“Oh no, the son’s boy is still here,” the woman said with delight. It seemed that she was fond of being in other people’s business. She was – _what did his students call it? Ah yes_ – a busybody. But, he supposed, it was rather difficult not to be in such a small place. “Lives by himself most of the year, up in that big old house on the hill, with no one but the house staff for company.”

“He doesn’t get along very well with the other children,” said the young man behind the counter. “Doesn’t smile much either.”

“Can’t blame him though, with a father like that,” the woman sneered.

“What of his mother? Surely she–” he began, only to be cut off.

“That’s the thing though,” exclaimed the woman, “no one knows! The Riddles’ son fell in love with a pauper’s daughter some years back, and he ran off to elope with her. Year later he comes back, going on and on about being _bewitched_ , of all things.” She leaned forward then to say, “But three years ago, the boy shows up covered in bandages and quick as can be, he’s part of the family. Suppose the Riddles wanted to be sure the family name had a future, even if that future was some half-blood gypsy boy.

“But anyway,” she continued gleefully, “the boy just appeared one day, no mother in sight. Most of us think she must’ve been murdered, probably by whoever had roughed up the boy. Or the boy was–” She would have said more, eyes bulging with excitement, if the young barkeep hadn’t stepped in.

“I think that’s enough, Edith.” He ignored her sullen glare to turn to Professor Dumbledore, shifting nervously as he took in the older man’s disapproving eyes and tightly pressed lips. The young man cast his gaze around the room as though he was looking for someone standing in the shadows but they were the only ones in the Hanged Man. Satisfied, he leaned in and said, “The kid’s fine, if a bit distant. It’s the staff who’re the problem.”

Professor Dumbledore thought about asking the man what he meant, thought about stealing into his thoughts to find out, but in the end he just nodded distractedly. It was likely that they were simply blaming the house staff for their charge’s accidental magic. Yes, he decided with a firmer nod, that was what was happening. Professor Dumbledore returned his attention to the two muggles who were watching him expectantly.

“I see,” he said in a serene tone that never failed to utterly infuriate his chess partners; Edith scowled darkly in disappointment. “From your earlier comments, I take it that the manor on the hill is the Riddles’ home?”

The young man blinked slowly and nodded. Beaming, Professor Dumbledore clasped his hands together and gave them a thankful little bow before hurrying out of the pub. He strode along the streets at a brisk pace, and before long the wizard was standing outside the gate cutting off the Victorian-styled manor from the rest of the world.

Perhaps he had let the short conversation at the pub color his judgment a little, for now that he was there the cast-iron seemed less artful and more foreboding. The garden beyond was beautiful, if rather dark with its many thorny bushes and large darkly colored flowers. Indeed, it looked much like the garden of one of the Black family’s many estates, albeit with muggle plants. Professor Dumbledore frowned. All in all, it didn’t look like a particularly warm environment for a child to grow up in. With a heavy sigh, he began looking for something to alert the residences of his arrival.

A shadowed figure moved in one of the third-floor windows, catching the professor’s eye as it stepped further back into the shadows of the room beyond. It would seem that he’d been spotted. Professor Dumbledore ceased his search to wait. Sooner than he expected, the front door opened and a thin man stepped out.

As he drew closer, Professor Dumbledore began to pick out the man’s features. Thick blond hair that was slicked back; sharp silver glasses attached to a delicate chain; lightly tanned skin stretched over lean muscle; a trim black suit jacket worn over a russet brown waistcoat and starched white shirt; sharply pressed black slacks and polished dress shoes. The man was smiling a distant, polite smile Professor Dumbledore had seen Horace Slughorn use whenever he dealt with a particularly annoying but potentially useful contact, and his eyes were pressed into small slits. This, Dumbledore assumed, was the butler.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the man said. “Please excuse the wait, but the young master was unaware that he should be expecting visitors.” Though his smile never faltered, the professor felt that a great deal of annoyance was being directed at him.

“Ah, yes, I apologize for the lack of warning,” said the professor as he removed the thick letter from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and held it so that the fair-haired man could read its address. “I am Professor Albus Dumbledore, an instructor and the Deputy Headmaster at Hogwarts. Young Mr. Riddle has been accepted into our school, and instead of simply sending the letter, it was decided that it would be best for someone to hand-deliver it so as to answer any questions he might have.”

“I see,” he said, tilting his head in a manner curiously reminiscent of Fawkes whenever the phoenix felt that he had done something particularly stupid. It was clear that the man did not quite believe him.

“May I ask who you are?”

“I am the head of staff, Edgar Merrick.”

Professor Dumbledore quickly ran through his options. He could use a mild confounding charm but it would not do to subjugate the person who was likely to be Mr. Riddle’s authority figure. The only thing left to do was try to convince the man of his sincerity. But before he could say a word, Mr. Merrick was already moving.

“Please, come in,” the butler said.

Deft fingers flicked open the gates lock, and Mr. Merrick stepped back with a minuscule bow as he waved Professor Dumbledore through. As they strolled up the stone walkway, each of Dumbledore’s questions was waved off with a quick, precise finesse that he rarely saw in even the craftiest of his political opponents. They reached and passed through the front door in no time at all – “welcome to Riddle Manor, Professor” – and he was soon ushered into a small, but finely furnished parlor.

“Please wait here while I gather the young master and prepare tea.”

Mr. Merrick left without another word or backward glance. The professor shook his head, befuddled, and began glancing about the room to pass the time.

The walls were covered in ivory-toned silk wallpaper and trimmed in dark oak. A fireplace occupied the eastern wall, its hearth fenced off by a polished ivy-patterned grate. Several useless but expensive looking knickknacks dotted the mantel, and above them loomed a large painting of three dark-haired and grim-faced adults. All of them were beautiful, with dark eyes and handsome cheekbones but it was a harsh, cold beauty. Dumbledore couldn’t imagine any of them raising a child, though they must have.

“My father and his parents,” said a quiet, young voice. The professor turned. Standing in the doorway was a thin boy with the same dark hair and cold eyes as the three painted figures. He wore a white shirt under a dark grey vest, and black short trousers. His clothes were simple but of high quality and the only color came from a thin, dark red ribbon in place of a tie. Silence fell over the room as the young wizard settled onto the canapé. “My name is Tom Riddle. Please, have a seat.”

With a soft hum of amusement, Professor Dumbledore sat in one of the upholstered armchairs. He gave the boy a considering look and decided how he would broach the existence of magic. If he flippantly told the child he was a wizard, young Tom would assume he was being made fun of. Such a stoic child, he thought sadly.

“Mr. Riddle, I am Albus Dumbledore, the Deputy Headmaster and a professor at Hogwarts. I’ve come to inform you that you’ve been accepted.”

Tom blinked. “I can’t say that I’ve heard of Hogwarts. How could I be accepted if I’ve never applied for admittance?”

“Hogwarts is a school for those with a particular talent set up with the intention of aiding these children in developing and controlling that gift,” pausing, Dumbledore gave the quietly laughing boy a stern look. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Merrick enter the room with a serving tray. “Is something wrong, Mr. Riddle?”

“With all due respect, Professor, saying it like that makes it sound like it’s a facility that conducts illegal experiments on unsuspecting children.” He paused to smile grimly and receive a cup of tea from his butler. “Assuming that that isn’t what Hogwarts is, please clarify your explanation.” Sighing, Dumbledore accept tea and busied himself fixing it to his liking. After taking a sip, he gave the boy a bland stare.

“Hogwarts is a school of witchcraft and wizardry.” Mr. Merrick made a noise of disbelief but remained silent. “Perhaps some proof is in order.” Swiftly, he pulled out his wand and with a flick, levitated the tea from its pot. Another flick and it twisted into the form of a blooming rose. Tom watched the liquid with a curious stare while Mr. Merrick frowned minutely.

“Is that what it’s called then? Wizardry,” the boy tilted his head, “or is it magic?”

“Magic is the term typically used,” said the professor as he returned the tea to the teapot. “You are taking this rather well.”

Tom shrugged and slouched against the back of the canapé. “I’ve always been able to do odd things. Floating books, fixing shattered teacups; that sort of thing.” He flicked his fingers to summon a shortbread cookie and took a delicate bite as he watched Dumbledore’s expression. Dumbledore allowed his eyebrows to rise slightly, but kept the rest of his face neutral.

“Most do not have such control.”

“What do you mean?”

“For one, most wizards and witches use a wand to help focus their magic for spells, and most find incantations to be a requirement for doing magic.” He set his empty cup on the table and reached into his pocket for the boy’s acceptance letter. Gingerly, Tom took it.

“Mr. T. Riddle, The Bedroom Across From the Library, Riddle Estate, Little Hangleton, Durham,” he read aloud. “How… specific.” Then, with an odd smile, he flipped over the envelope and opened it. As he read through the letter, he asked, “Do wizards use the same money that the rest of the country uses? And where am I expected to buy my equipment?”

“You’ll be accepting your place at Hogwarts then,” asked Dumbledore.

“Hm? Oh, yes, of course.”

“Shouldn’t you speak with your father about this?”

“Father will hardly care or even notice that I’m gone, if he returns to the house at all,” said Tom, clearly dismissing the subject. Mr. Merrick seemed unsurprised by the turn of events.

“Mr. Riddle, regardless of how independent you feel yourself to be, this isn’t a decision you should be making without consulting your father. I’m sure–”

“My father hasn’t been home for nearly two years.” Tom set aside the letter and stared coldly at him. “In all honesty, I’m not even sure he’s still alive. You might as well treat me as you would any orphan.” Sputtering, he turned to the butler who didn’t seem at all inclined to exert any sort of authority over his charge.

“If the young master feels it is to his advantage to attend your… school, than I’ve no objections,” was Mr. Merrick’s rather unhelpful opinion.

“I see.” He sighed heavily. “Very well then; let us proceed to Diagon Alley.”

“You haven’t answered my question about money yet,” Tom said.

“We have our own monetary system,” explained Dumbledore. “There are Knuts, Sickles and Galleons. A Knut is worth ten pence and twenty-nine of them equals one Sickle; seventeen Sickles to a Galleon.”

“And how much will the young master need for his supplies?”

“Roughly twenty-one Galleons.”

Tom nodded. “Paper or coins?” He stood and headed for the door.

“Coins. And where are you going?”

“Well,” he said, “I can’t very well wander about barefoot, now can I? I’ll be back shortly.” Tom left the room. Not a minute later, he returned carrying a dark brown, leather messenger bag. “Will you be accompanying us, Edgar?” The butler glanced up from the dishes he was gathering and gave his charge an assessing look before returning to his task.

“There should be no need. Dinner will be ready at its usual time, so please try to be back before then.”

“Then we’ll be off.”

Professor Dumbledore followed the boy to the foyer, where he then placed a hand on his shoulder. “We will be Apparating to a Wizarding pub in Great Hangleton, and from there, we will take the floo to the Leaky Cauldron in London.” He waited for Tom to nod before Disapparating. They arrived in a cramped alleyway between two crooked brick buildings. The boy slapped a hand over his mouth and breathed deeply through his nose for several minutes.

“A warning would have been nice,” Tom said once he’d recovered. He glanced at the street signs and nodded to himself.

“I find that warnings don’t help nearly as much as one would think.”

The professor lead his charge further down the alley to a partially hidden door with a three-legged crow carved deeply into the pale, dirty wood. Despite its worn appearance, the door opened soundlessly and the two quickly walk through the dim room to an open fireplace. Dumbledore dropped a handful of Knuts into a collecting tin and took a large pinch of green powder from a vase beside it. “This is floo powder. To use it, you toss the powder into a lit fireplace,” he did so now and the fire flared green, “and step in while clearly saying the address of your destination. As this is your first time traveling in this manner, we shall travel together.”

The boy gave the fire a suspicious stare, but nodded anyway. As they stepped in, Dumbledore closed his hand around Tom’s shoulder and said, “Diagon Alley.” Green fire flared up around them and off they went spinning through the network of hearths until they stumbled out into the cheery tavern guarding the entrance to the Alley. Dumbledore banished the lingering soot and lead his charge towards the back of the Leaky Cauldron.

“The Leaky Cauldron is London’s main entryway into Diagon Alley,” he explained. “It is located on Charing Cross Road and is protected by a charm that prevents muggles from stumbling unawares upon it.”

“Muggles?”

“It is what we call non-magic folk.”

They left the pub and entered a small courtyard that held a few old barrels and a crumbling brick wall. Dumbledore took out his wand and turned to his charge. “There is a specific brick that must be tapped with a wand in order to open the gateway.” He pointed to a cluster of pitted bricks. “Remember that from here, it is three up and two across.” A short tap and the wall shifted, folding in on its self until it became a large archway leading into a bustling street. Professor Dumbledore turned and smiled at the awed expression of Tom’s face.

“Welcome, Mr. Riddle, to Diagon Alley.”


End file.
